


miroirs

by halfaday



Series: whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: SF9 (Band)
Genre: M/M, guess what you should do before reading this without a warning, it's free real estate fellatasy, these are romantic or platonic you be the judge, you guessed it: read the beginning note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 12:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfaday/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: wonwoon whumptober drabbles owo Click Here To Know More uwu
Relationships: Kim Seokwoo | Rowoon & Lee Sanghyuk | Dawon, Kim Seokwoo | Rowoon/Lee Sanghyuk | Dawon
Series: whumptober 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618456
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

> these are all drabbles inspired by the prompts of whumptober 2019, which you can find [here](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187785964678/whumptober2019-october-approaches-and-so-does). rating is pg-13, as you can see from… the rating, but i’d like to warn that it’s only bc it’s pretty mild for whump in general? this is gentle whump, if i may. but it remains whump, so i’ve put together a list of triggers that appear throughout these drabbles, which you can find [here](https://galatewoon.tumblr.com/wo2019). however, this list is not spoiler-free, so it’s up to you, whether to go in this completely blind or not (each prompt is still listed before the drabble that stemmed from it, because, well, context still matters). in general, warning for ments of blood, death (there Are character deaths in some drabbles, but!! there's a warning for them so you're not caught off-guard), torture; just pain in general. (but not too much)

_1\. shaky hands_

The gunshots that penetrate Seokwoo's chest send a fire burning through his veins, and it's with a loud gasp that he opens his eyes, arching his back and tipping forward, almost falling off the long chair he was lying on.

'My heart,' he manages to say in-between pants.

It's there: a clear, loud rhythm ringing throughout his entire body, a surface devoid of any hole, of any blood dripping down his fingers — it's intact, _alive._

It shouldn't be.

Seokwoo opens his mouth, looking for words that could explain his surprise, that could make sense of all of this; but what he wants to say gets stuck in his throat, refuses to step out of his mouth. He closes it.

'Seokwoo.'

Warmth, suddenly seeping through the fabric of his pants, a lone hand placed on his thigh. Calm, still — unmoving as Seokwoo tries to touch it, fails because his body won't obey him, won't let him make sense of this mess.

'Seokwoo.'

Seokwoo looks up, meets calm, reassuring eyes — a comforting gaze, and, amidst the utter mess of thoughts that is flowing in and out of his mind, Seokwoo thinks he knows why Sanghyuk's been appointed as the one charged with aftercare, as the trainer and first dreamer.

'My heart,' Seokwoo repeats, still panicked, still feeling the pain of the bullets that should be lodged in his chest.

'It's fine.' Sanghyuk cups his face, both hands on his cheeks, silently forcing Seokwoo to look at him and only him. Seokwoo obliges. 'Look at me. Feel me. You're fine. Whatever happened was not real.'

Seokwoo shakes his head, tries to move his hands — but can't, spasms shaking them violently, rendering them unable to even rest on Sanghyuk's forearms.

'The gun,' he says, 'the bullets. I felt them. It- it hurt.'

'It's not real. It's not real.' Sanghyuk leans forward, lets go of Seokwoo's face in favour of holding his hands, pulling on them, laying them flat on his chest, where his heart beats calmly, regularly; uninterrupted, unflinching. It's so strange, so quiet, compared to Seokwoo's heart, and Seokwoo has to listen closely to hear the faint beats, has to focus to feel them lightly hit the palms of his hands.

'It was not real, Seokwoo,' Sanghyuk says, quieter, closer. 'It was all a dream.'

Seokwoo looks up, grips Sanghyuk's shirt a little when he feels a spasm run through his right hand.

'It felt real.'

A hand wandering on his forearm, ordering him to relax, tracing gentle lines on his skin — Seokwoo shuts his eyes, inhales and exhales deeply.

'It felt so real,' he mutters. 'Too real.'

He sighs, makes fists with his hands, tries to forget the sensation of being hit in the chest, of dying — is unable to, sighs louder, whines silently.

'It was a dream,' Sanghyuk says. His fingers slide down Seokwoo's arm, come to rest upon his hands. 'You're fine. Everything is fine.'

He squeezes his hands, holds them with one; gently laying his other one on Seokwoo's chest, right where his heart is. There's no hole underneath, no gaping wound to be found — simply a panicked rhythm; loud beats that seem to echo against every wall of the warehouse, that render Seokwoo deaf and suffocate him. There's nothing: his heart beats just like always, scared but alive, frail but holding on.

The others are waking up when Seokwoo opens his eyes — here and there, in the corners of his eyes, he catches movements, yawns and hushed whispers. Sanghyuk doesn't pay attention; is only looking at him. His eyes are glinting, with confidence, and something else, something Seokwoo feels he's never seen before.

'Everything is fine,' Sanghyuk says in a whisper.

Seokwoo frees one of his hands to hold Sanghyuk's. It's small, his fingertips resting above his, against his own chest, and Seokwoo realises his shakes have lessened, his heartbeat is quieter. Not as quiet as Sanghyuk's — but it is calmer nevertheless, finally finding reassurance in the real world, finally managing to grasp the false tangibility of everything that happened in the dream. It lives, just like it did before, just like it will the next time he dies in a dream.

'Everything is fine,' he repeats, and his heart speeds up proudly when Sanghyuk smiles at him.

_alt:5. fist fight_

He's sat on the stairs of his porch, arms loosely crossed on his knees, the strings of his washed-out Converse undone. He looks like an utter mess, eyes bloodshot and scabs all over his hands, his face — but then again, so does Sanghyuk.

He glares at Sanghyuk when he stops a few steps away from him, clenches his fists but doesn't say anything. _You talk first,_ this means.

So Sanghyuk does.

'You were right,' he says. Thinks of adding something else, but doesn't, other words lacking the substance Seokwoo is looking for, not quite pleasing him in the way they would sound aloud.

Seokwoo doesn't move, doesn't reply. Keeps staring at him — and in his eyes, Sanghyuk sees pain flicker a few times. Feels his stomach twist and churn at the sight.

He doesn't ask if he can sit, simply does, moving away the bloody bandages laying next to Seokwoo and taking their place. He kind of expects a punch, an insult, or a reaction — but nothing comes, and he lets himself relax, stretches his legs and leans back on his arms, just like he did when they were kids, just like he did a few months ago, back when girls problems were fiction and something to laugh at.

'You were right,' he repeats, and this time Seokwoo moves, turns to look at him. _Tell me more,_ he silently says — so Sanghyuk does. 'She dumped me. Didn't even give me the chance to ask why. Just dumped me. Showed up two hours later on some senior's arm. That- that felt kinda bad.'

Seokwoo looks away, doesn't pat his knee like he used to whenever Sanghyuk got hurt. Sanghyuk kind of wishes he did, kind of wants to be comforted.

'I told you so,' Seokwoo finally says. He fiddles with his fingers, with the scab at the back of his hand, the one that appeared after he punched Sanghyuk, when Sanghyuk retaliated and scratched every possible place he could find. 

'Kinda wish I'd believed you.'

There's still pain in Seokwoo's eyes when he glances at him, but it's tender, gentler — indecipherable, but Sanghyuk isn't curious, doesn't want to know what Seokwoo is thinking. He only wants everything to be like before, when flunking his classes was the first worry on his mind, and being by Seokwoo's side was the most obvious thing in the world.

Seokwoo moves — wraps an arm around his, nudges it until Sanghyuk straightens himself up; then he pulls him towards him, softly, gently, until Sanghyuk rests his head on his shoulder, until he's leaning against him, just like he did when Sanghyuk's parents yelled at him for being exuberant, and Seokwoo didn't know how to comfort him verbally. He intertwines their fingers, lets Sanghyuk rest their hands on his thigh, strokes the back of Sanghyuk's hand with his thumb.

'She doesn't deserve you,' he says. Like it's a fact, like he's been told by heaven itself that Sanghyuk is worth much more than this girl. Sanghyuk knows it's just his opinion — but he believes him anyway, allows Seokwoo's words to blind him just a little.

'Thanks.'

Seokwoo doesn't say anything, simply squeezes his hand then leans his head on his. Sanghyuk smiles.

 _You've got me forever,_ this means.

_3\. delirium_

The forest is deep, an entity all to itself — a being that doesn't want to release Seokwoo, no matter how hard he tries. It seems to him that he's been walking the same path, encountering the same trees, making the same, same, same discoveries. He's tired; feels like he's been fighting hopelessly against something that will always be stronger than him. He doesn't know how long it's been anymore, is only sure that he left some time ago, that he should be close to his goal, but is not. 

'Left… behind the greenery… a duck…'

Sanghyuk is curled up in his arms, head burrowed in his chest, arms barely holding on to his neck. He's been becoming weaker, been becoming sicker and sicker, the poison now fully flowing in his veins, parasitising each and every thought of his. 

'Hold on just a little more,' Seokwoo whispers, perfectly aware that his words will fall into deaf ears, still needing to say them. 'Hold on, Sanghyuk.'

Sanghyuk doesn't hear him, whines then mumbles that he's tired, that father is waiting for him, he can't look after the cows tonight. He drools, just a little, moans, then chuckles, for no reason, like he's been doing for the past few days.

'The sandals,' he says, like it's the funniest joke on earth, and Seokwoo tightens his hold around him, ignores the ache in his heart.

The sky is not visible when he looks up, trees and their leaves shielding it from prying eyes — and what it holds is still a mystery when Seokwoo gazes at it hours later, leaning against a sturdy trunk that goes up and up and up. Sanghyuk has been asleep for a while now, bizarrely quiet and still in his arms. His heart beats, but faintly, slowly, and Seokwoo is scared, scared that he'll never make it.

'Sanghyuk,' he whispers as he sits down, cradling him into his arms, stroking his cheek in hope that Sanghyuk will wake.

He does not.

'Sanghyuk,' he says again, and he leans his head against his, sighs.

He fancies he can hear water flowing nearby, that there are sounds somewhere close — but then again so did he think hours ago, days ago, back when he'd first set foot in the forest. He's tired, exhausted — has no strength left in his body, needs to rest before he can continue.

'Five minutes,' he whispers to Sanghyuk, to himself.

He tightens his hold around Sanghyuk, kisses him goodnight before shutting his eyes, letting the forest win once more.

 _Five minutes,_ he says again — and Sanghyuk, in his arms, against his chest, does not move at all.

_4\. human shield (character death)_

Sanghyuk has never been the crying type. He doesn't see the point of tears, doesn't see the point of emotions in general. Why waste time considering what the heart feels and wants, if it doesn't make sense? Why lose yourself in your emotions, if it's not gonna change anything?

There's no point in emotions, no point in feeling things and making it known — but as Seokwoo lies on the ground, blood slowly pooling under him, Sanghyuk thinks he might have been wrong, might have felt this way because there was nothing to feel all along.

'Don't cry.'

Seokwoo attempts to lift his hand, to wipe Sanghyuk's tears, but he barely manages to raise it — and, horrified, utterly broken, Sanghyuk doesn't let him, instead reaches out and squeezes his hand, tangles their fingers together one last time.

'Why did you do this,' he says, not really asking, not really wanting an answer — no: perhaps, maybe, if he starts a quarrel, Seokwoo won't die, perhaps he won't leave Sanghyuk alone.

'You know why.'

He does — Sanghyuk wants to smile, wants to say that he loves him too, but the only thing he manages to do is cry a little harder, and the only thing that escapes his mouth is a sob, desperate and hopeless.

'Why did you do this,' he repeats, louder this time — he's angry, so, so angry. He wants to yell and scream and shout, wants to defy the stars that spun their fate, that made them meet and love each other and then decided to take it all back. He wants to go back in time, and take every bullet that was for him, wants to stop Seokwoo from protecting him. 'You're so stupid. I hate you so much.'

Seokwoo smiles, attempts a laugh that only comes out as a gasp. His hand doesn't manage to squeeze Sanghyuk's.

'Don't be mad.'

Sanghyuk wants to say that he is, wants to scream that he's furious — but his mind tells him not to, his heart tells him to tell Seokwoo he loves him.

So he does.

'I love you,' he whispers, kissing Seokwoo's knuckles one by one, eyes locked with his, unable to look away, too scared that if he does, he'll then be met with empty eyes. 'I love you so much. Please, please, don't leave me. Please…'

He has a thousand pleas on his tongue, ready to be heard by the heavens above; a thousand curses, that he keeps for later; a thousand memories rushing through his mind, too fast to be deciphered — but everything fades away, everything disappears when Seokwoo gasps and a rale escapes his lips, distorted and much too real for Sanghyuk. The only thing that remains in his mind is his despair, and how unfair this all is.

'I love you,' he says, and he repeats it over and over again, tears choking him up, twisting his words into senseless sobs as Seokwoo pants, wheezes and coughs, his hand gripping his tightly, pain painting his face.

'I…' he starts — inhales deeply, struggles to get air to his lungs.

 _Don't talk,_ Sanghyuk wants to say, _you'll die if you do._ But Seokwoo _is_ dying, is never making out of this alive — Sanghyuk props his head up, and listens closely, encourages him to go on.

'I love you… too…'

Words he's said a million times before, while laughing, crying, in a scream as they fought, in a whisper as they lay in bed together; in the morning or in the evening as if it were a greeting, as if it were the simplest thing to do, as if it were an evidence — words said so often saying them was almost a habit, receiving them with a kiss was another one.

Sanghyuk fights back the new surge of tears threatening to fall, and he bends down, cups Seokwoo's face. Tries to smile, somehow manages to; then pecks Seokwoo on the lips, softly. Seokwoo welcomes the kiss with a smile, twisted, pained — but a smile nevertheless, and as his grip on Sanghyuk's hand loosens, as the light departs his eyes, Sanghyuk kisses him again, to send him off, to convey everything he wishes he had told him, and will never be able to share.

He waits until the hand in his is limp, lifeless to cry again, waits until he can no longer stand to have emptiness stare back at him to shut Seokwoo's eyes — waits until what could have been a perfect delay for a farce, for a joke and a _surprise!_ becomes a little too long, to moan and whine and wail. Then he lets himself go, allows, for the first time, his emotions to overtake him.

And as he does, rain starts to fall — and for all the times Sanghyuk has used it to mask his emotions, this time, he believes it cries his loss with him.

He looks up to the mighty clouds above, and lets his tears fall freely.

_5\. gunpoint_

The circle is tight, mask after mask after mask as Sanghyuk slowly turns, hideous expressions painted on every one of them. There's twenty-seven of them, he rapidly counts, and he presses Seokwoo's thigh, whispers the cursed number as quietly as he can.

'Wanna say something?' the chief of the masked asks.

Seokwoo straightens himself up, suddenly becoming taller, sturdier against Sanghyuk's back — Sanghyuk shakes his head, uses the strength that's flowing in the body against his to fuel himself.

'Not at all, thank you very much.'

There's no way for them to get out of this unscathed: too many people, not quite enough bullets in their guns — the possibility that some of the masks will be good at fighting when they pull out their knives, when they have to use their entire bodies to defend themselves. It's a hopeless situation, no matter how many times they've been there — unpredictable, and so easily lost.

Sanghyuk grips his gun, takes in a deep breath. They're getting out of here, no matter what. They have to.

'Seokwoo,' he says, paying no attention to the loudness of his voice, to the reactions it elicits, only focusing on the hand that wraps itself around his wrist, assuring him that he's here, that he's listening. It's warm, soft, feels at home on his skin, and Sanghyuk promises himself that, if they get out of this alive, he'll consider what Seokwoo has been offering, from the flowers he whispered he'd deliver, to the house they could settle into when the world does not need them anymore. He'll think it through, and give him an answer.

But as for now, they have to fight to see the light of day.

'Seokwoo,' he repeats, and the hand deserts his forearm, the back against his gets in position. Sanghyuk inhales, thinks of quiet sunsets on the beach and Seokwoo's arms around him. 'Now.'

_6\. dragged away_

The kitchen knife suddenly seems much bigger, its tip inches away from his neck, warning him of potential missteps he could be tempted to make.

'Don't move, wolf-man.'

The young man — Sanghyuk — tightens his grip on his shoulder, keeps his legs as close to Seokwoo's torso as he can. Not bad, Seokwoo thinks — in any other life, their roles would be switched. But as it is, Sanghyuk has no training, only his instinct guiding him, and Seokwoo could flip them both and switch their positions whenever he'd want. Could, because he won't, because he knows that would shatter all his chances to get Sanghyuk's trust. 

So he remains still, fakes being powerless, just for their sake, just for Sanghyuk's well-being.

'What do you want?' he says, not quite having to add a false layer of fear to his voice.

'Out. I want out.' Sanghyuk presses the tip of the knife to Seokwoo's neck, somehow manages to make his heart beat faster no matter how sure Seokwoo is of being safe. 'Let me out, wolf-man.'

'That's not possible.'

Sanghyuk frowns, makes a face, leans in — his hand is shaking, slightly, but he's hiding his fear, thinks his weapon is protecting him. He's wrong, oh-so clearly wrong, but Seokwoo doesn't mind pretending if it means he can perhaps explain the situation to him, if he can get him to stay. Keeping Sanghyuk safe — _alive_ — that's all that matters.

'It's not a request. I'm ordering you to let me out.'

His tone is cold, a hiss, and, amidst registering the tip of the knife very clearly poking his skin and slightly panicking, Seokwoo admires how good Sanghyuk is at this, at pretending everything is fine, he's the one in charge.

'I can't.'

The answer does not please Sanghyuk — has him crushing his shoulder, showing teeth and getting impatient.

'Yes, you can! Yes, you fucking can! Why do I matter to you anyway? Do we know each other? Not at all! Fucking creep! Let me out!'

He leans forward, attempts to pierce Seokwoo's skin, does everything wrong but doesn't notice, holding the knife higher, where a wound wouldn't be synonym of instant death. Seokwoo relaxes. Sanghyuk doesn't.

'You know that you're in trouble if you don't let me out, right? I have friends- you know that, if you've been… stalking me, or whatever. You know that, right? They're gonna worry. Hell, they probably started worrying long ago. They're gonna call the police. Call my family. You're not getting out of this, you know? Help is going to show up.'

Sanghyuk seems - choked up, like he's mad at himself for saying this much, like he knows he's losing his cool — yet he's unable to stop himself, needs to talk, needs to strike fear into Seokwoo. Doesn't know how; is scared he won't succeed. Seokwoo feels pity — wishes they didn't have to dance this number, wishes they'd met differently. Had he simply managed to say hello months ago, they wouldn't be there, there wouldn't be any danger in sight, be it nearby or away.

'I'll kill you,' Sanghyuk continues. 'I'll kill you. If you don't let me out, I'll slit your throat. I'll kill you, and I'll get out. It's in your best interest that you let me out.'

Sanghyuk caresses his neck with the knife, perhaps thinking it will scare Seokwoo — it does not, the blade not quite fit for this, the gesture awkward and inexperienced. Seokwoo is tired, wants this to stop, wants Sanghyuk to be at peace. Doesn't enjoy seeing him like this.

'You wouldn't kill me,' he says, softly, as if saying the truth quietly would soften it. It partly works: Sanghyuk doesn't get angrier — but he also does not simmer down.

'What do you mean? How would you know that? How are you so sure of that? I said I'll kill you. I'll really fucking do it, wolf-man.'

'You won't.'

Sanghyuk stares, as if this were a bet, a question of pride. It sort of is — but deep down, he himself knows he can't kill Seokwoo, doesn't have it in him. He's a little thing, scared and frail, locked up in his own mind. If the strength, the ability to kill exist, deep down, in his heart, they are not waking tonight.

'Drop your weapon. Put that knife away.'

Seokwoo hesitates, doesn't know if he should say more. Decides he doesn't care, he's tired of waiting anyway.

'I don't want to hurt you. I'm not here to cause you harm.'

Sanghyuk grips the knife, looks at him with hatred in his eyes — doesn't know what to do, is utterly lost, desperate.

'Drop your weapon,' Seokwoo repeats, in a whisper — hoping Sanghyuk will obey.

Sanghyuk doesn't; keeps the knife in hand, keeps straddling him — but the cracks that Seokwoo's refusal created come to light, and he embraces them. He lowers his head, his hair suddenly blocking the sight of his face for Seokwoo — he presses Seokwoo's shoulder, once, then lets it go, both of his hands coming to wipe his face — his tears.

He cries, quietly, slowly, a few sobs shaking his entire body, the despair seizing him making him hit Seokwoo's chest lightly; strength, courage, deserting him.

'Let me go,' he whispers, and Seokwoo knows he's not acting by the way he holds the knife, loosely, absentmindedly, the blade held towards himself rather than his enemy; can feel it in the way his hand comes to clutch his shirt, in desperate need of a stable axis for his world, crumbling down under his feet. 'Please.'

Seokwoo believes he shouldn't move, should act like Sanghyuk has the upper hand to make it easier later to gain his trust, to make it easier for the both of them — but he can't stand the sight of Sanghyuk like this, can't bear doing nothing while Sanghyuk breaks apart.

He rises, slowly, extricating his arms from underneath Sanghyuk. It surprises Sanghyuk, has him gasping and interrupting his crying. Seokwoo gazes at him, doesn't manage to catch his eye — lays his hand on his instead, takes hold of the knife.

'Don't touch me,' Sanghyuk hisses, unconvincingly, voice broken and full of tears.

'I'm not here to hurt you.'

Seokwoo puts the knife away, is stricken by how small, hopeless Sanghyuk appears when he turns back to him. He lowers himself, and finally, finally manages to meet his gaze. He thinks of laying a hand on his thigh — doesn't, doesn't want to scare Sanghyuk, doesn't want to go against his words.

'I'm not here to hurt you,' he repeats, hoping his sincerity will get across, that Sanghyuk will, at some point, believe him. 'Trust me.'

'Then why am I here? Why did you kidnap me?'

The term has Seokwoo wincing, opening his mouth to correct Sanghyuk — but he's right, he realises as Sanghyuk looks at him, waits for an answer. He did everything wrong, has already had to pay for it. 

Seokwoo sighs, looks away then back at Sanghyuk, nibbles on his bottom lip. He did everything wrong — he has to do the right thing at some point, has to start somewhere.

He gazes at the knife, at the lack of weapon in Sanghyuk's hands, at the tears streaks on his face, at his red eyes. Takes his decision.

'I'll tell you,' he says. 'But you have to trust me.'

And as Sanghyuk stares, doubtful, Seokwoo does not wait, and begins talking and explaining — he opens his mouth, and starts here.

_alt:13. breathless_

Sanghyuk pulls up, water trickling from his swimming cap, down his face, his neck, his chest. He gasps, takes in big gulps of air, and Seokwoo waits until he's a little less breathless, until he's taken off his goggles to announce the numbers frozen on the screen of his stopwatch.

'5'33.'

He's grateful Sanghyuk is tired: he knows for sure he would otherwise curse and fulminate, would complain and not let it go for a good five minutes. But as it is, he lacks the breath to express his anger, his disappointment, and simply hits the water with his hands, mutters a quiet _fuck_ and rubs his face.

'One more,' he says, putting his goggles back on, not even letting himself process his time, not even allowing his body to rest. Then again, it's been like this for the past two hours — but Sanghyuk has gotten crankier in the last few laps, annoyed that he's not progressing as fast as he wishes he was, that he can't quite get used to the techniques he's been taught. It's normal, needs time, Seokwoo thinks, but Sanghyuk disagrees, lacks time and wants everything to be perfect _now._

'How about you rest,' Seokwoo offers anyway, fully knowing Sanghyuk will say no. 'You're tired. It's going to impact on your time.'

'No.'

Sanghyuk opens his mouth, closes it. Probably thought of something to say, managed to realise it sounded too bitter — decides to say it anyway, apparently:

'Athletes don't get tired, you know.'

Seokwoo ignores the slight resentment in his tone, knows it's due to the exhaustion and the stress he's put through, by the coaches and himself. Still, his heart aches just a bit, and he can't help but feel just a little bit begrudging, a bit sad. He knows Sanghyuk, has known him for a long time now — but the hell he puts himself through isn't his cup of tea, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, with its times that are never fast enough, and its constant competition.

But this isn't a conversation they'll be having now. This kind of discussion is one that fits a quiet afternoon spent in his or Sanghyuk's room, while they're half-asleep but still talking to each other, completely ignoring their homework — one that would come easily and that they'd lie through, treating it like it's unimportant while nibbling on their lips, wishing they could say more about who they would like to be in the future. This — something that would leave them feeling hopeless, no matter how insignificant, short, or hopeful the conversation would be — is not for these hurried times, during which everything seems to matter, during which each and every failure is multiplied tenfold.

'They do.' 

Sanghyuk rolls his eyes.

'You know what I mean.'

'I do.' Seokwoo searches for something smart to say, doesn't find anything. He's not good at rhetoric when he's tired — he settles instead for saying what's on his mind, or at the very least a small part of what runs through it. 'You need to rest, Sanghyuk. Pulling a muscle won't do you much good.'

'I'm most definitely not about to pull a muscle. I'm fine.'

'You know what I mean.'

Sanghyuk does — is very well aware of what Seokwoo is telling him, of the fact that he's worried. He Knows, but can pretend he doesn't as long as Seokwoo doesn't word his feelings, as long as he remains quiet and his feelings are, in a way, purely suppositions. And so he does, ignores the obvious concern directed towards him — acts like he didn't hear anything, and sinks back into the water, getting ready for another lap.

'Promise,' he says, and he locks eyes with Seokwoo, stubborn mule that still cannot allow its goal to trump its feelings, that still cares about him, and knows Seokwoo's heart without ever hearing it out loud. 'It's the last lap.'

His tone, his gaze are sincere; and Seokwoo decides to trust him, once more.

'Alright.'

He watches as Sanghyuk gets in position; as he stiffens, waiting for the whistle; as he departs when its blow echoes against every surface of the pool. Water trickles down his skin, fast, welcomes him like a parent would to their dearest child — wraps him in its warmest shades of love, and for a brief moment, time itself cannot break this union. For a moment, only swimming matters, and Seokwoo, mesmerised by the beauty of it all, catching a glimpse of Sanghyuk's own heart, thinks he'll let this time slide.

_8\. stab wound_

Sanghyuk pulls out the dagger from his neck, sighs as blood pours out of the wound, dirties his shirt from the collar all the way down to his bellybutton.

'You owe me a shirt, asshole!' he yells towards the corridor. Knowing fully well his maker is gone already, either to lurk the streets or to fulminate in his own room, down in the corridor Sanghyuk is banned from. It's the thought that counts, he thinks as he takes the fork out of his thigh, as he looks at the ugly burn mark the 'discussion' of this evening cost him.

There's no way to argue, to even have a polite conversation with his maker — especially when it's about how awful he is, how his death would really help a few people around the earth. His maker is too proud, too haughty to come off his pedestal. Something that used to amuse Sanghyuk eons ago, when he thought eternity was almost the funniest thing ever, second only to tricking humans and killing them. Not that he's gotten tired of eternity, or that a good joke once in a while never humours him anymore, but Sanghyuk has grown, has come to witness, understand and differentiate right from wrong, knows every wretched experience of his master, is filthy and abhorring. He's older now, and frankly tired of the one who gave him birth, who promised him the universe but couldn't even properly balance his needs when he was a newborn. A shitbag, is what he is, Juho would say — and Sanghyuk, mentally, wholeheartedly agrees.

He's not a fast healer (sadly hasn't inherited this one good thing from his maker): he watches the blood pour out and out, trickle down his chest, thin river flowing down his skin, painting it a pinkish red. It's long, waiting for his skin to regenerate — so long, Sanghyuk thinks he'll need to feed earlier than expected to limit the damage done to his body, to make sure he doesn't lose it. He's been stable for quite a few decades now, more than a century at least, but Sanghyuk despises the idea of falling back into the bloodlust, of losing his mind once more. It is the most repulsing thing he can ever think of.

There's movement in the corner of his eye, something sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, leaning forward as it watches the blood flow from his stab wound, entranced, fascinated, and Sanghyuk looks up, smiles when Seokwoo is his view rather than a mere something in his peripheral vision.

'I'm sorry,' he says, 'did you hear us fight?'

Seokwoo nods, shyly, slow, eyes becoming black then turning back to normal, unable to look away from the wound. Sanghyuk instinctively covers it, then remembers it's useless, that it would do nothing except make Seokwoo antsier.

'I'm sorry,' he repeats. He wants to ask Seokwoo if they scared him, if _he_ scared him, but he's gone, completely bewitched by his blood, and Sanghyuk extends his hand instead, decides his question can wait until Seokwoo is satiated, and fully aware.

'Come,' he says. 'Do you want to drink?'

Seokwoo nods, slowly, almost scared to say yes — Sanghyuk beckons him closer once more, pats the seat next to him, encourages him with a smile when he gets up.

'It's okay,' he whispers as Seokwoo sits down, and leans in just a bit too much, most definitely tipsy on the scent of Sanghyuk's blood. Newborns — they're not known for being able to resist their senses. 'It's alright. You can be hungry. It's normal.'

He smiles, softly, endeared by Seokwoo hesitating, inching closer then pulling back, unable to tie the needs of his body to the needs of his mind. It's new for him, something he'd never seen before, and Sanghyuk is as fascinated as he is charmed, discovering a sight of his lifestyle he's never had the chance of going through.

'Go ahead,' he says, and he gestures to his neck, brushes Seokwoo's hair back lovingly.

It takes Seokwoo a few seconds of hesitation; but in the end he dips, lays a clumsy hand on Sanghyuk's thigh, and his mouth on his neck, starts drinking what's been tempting him for the last few minutes.

He's cute: gives Sanghyuk's skin a few licks here and there, around the wound, before fully drinking, mindful of the blood that might be wasted. It's not the first time he feeds on Sanghyuk, not the first time he drinks from his neck — but still it's something Sanghyuk is not quite used to, something unfamiliar, that requires proximity. It's something his maker never accustomed him to, something that seems private and intimate, and Sanghyuk never really knows what to do, never really knows how to act.

He's been trying his best anyway — knows by the way Seokwoo is slowly letting his guard down around him that he's succeeding — but sometimes he has the fear that he's not doing enough, that he's not doing the right things. Seokwoo, when he speaks, always thanks him, always tells him he's grateful to be under his wing — but still Sanghyuk is frightened, thinks to himself that Seokwoo might get tired of him just like he himself got tired of his maker. 

Sanghyuk sighs, tired of the negativity suddenly flooding his mind, the incessant questions that never stop assailing him. He doesn't have their answers, isn't getting any closer to finding them. Would simply like to rest, for once, to be carefree and worry about nothing.

Seokwoo is still drinking; now taking larger gulps from the wound, lightly biting on his skin to get more blood. A sign that he's getting better, that he's starting to control his hunger — soon enough, he'll be able to go out on his own. Sanghyuk smiles proudly at the thought, caresses Seokwoo's hair. It's soft, slightly wavy, and its strands untangle easily when Sanghyuk combs it with his fingers, follow his lead and become tangled again when Sanghyuk's hand stills, rests on the back of his head to play with it. Seokwoo doesn't mind; only makes a small noise of acknowledgement when Sanghyuk's hand slides to his neck — but a few seconds later he pulls away.

'Sorry, did that bother you?'

Seokwoo shakes his head, almost seems to relax when Sanghyuk lays his hand on his neck again.

'I've had enough,' he says.

He hesitates, then wipes his mouth on his hand — tries to, spreads the blood rather than removing it. Sanghyuk lets out a laugh, grabs the sleeve of his now-ruined shirt and pulls him closer, tells him to stay still as he helps him.

'But your shirt…' Seokwoo mumbles.

'It's ruined anyway. Don't worry. Let's give it a useful end, at the very least.'

Sanghyuk smiles when his eyes meet Seokwoo's, comforting, silently telling him it's alright. He gently wipes the corners of his mouth, the little droplets of blood that somehow managed to land on his chin, his jaw; adds just a little water to clean the blood that has already dried. 

'There,' he finally says, and he pulls back to fully take in his masterpiece, perfectly clean skin and a stable Seokwoo.

'Thank you.'

Sanghyuk replies with a grin — rises from his seat, holds out his hand.

'Shall we? You don't look like it, but I think you may get drowsy from all that blood you just drank.'

Seokwoo nods and accepts the hand, follows Sanghyuk as he guides him to his room.

It isn't as big as Sanghyuk's, but the place remains spacious nevertheless, leaving enough room for them to navigate, Sanghyuk leaning on the gigantic wardrobe that originally belonged to him as he watches Seokwoo get into bed.

'All clear?' he asks, and he cannot resist coming closer, touching the black duvet he gave to Seokwoo when he rose from the dead, tucking him into bed like a parent would.

Seokwoo nods, thanks him again — but as Sanghyuk turns to leave, he catches his hand, slightly pulls on it.

'Are you going to be okay?'

His voice is low, quiet — worried, and Sanghyuk turns around, doesn't let go of his hand.

'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Your neck,' Seokwoo says, explains. 'Your wounds. The maker.'

 _Ah._ Sanghyuk tries his best to remain impassible, fakes a smile.

'Sure.' He opens his mouth to continue, comes to the conclusion that he doesn't want to have a discussion about his maker, not after a somewhat decent end to his chaotic evening. 'My wounds will be gone soon, no worries. I'll just have to feed sooner than expected.'

'Sorry.'

If Sanghyuk had a heart, it would be aching, shattering at the sight, at the tone of Seokwoo. He looks so small — so insecure, so worried. Sanghyuk intertwines their fingers, and sits on the edge of his bed, right by his legs.

'Don't be sorry,' he whispers, making sure to lock eyes with him as he speaks. 'You have done nothing wrong. None of this is your fault. Don't say sorry.'

Seokwoo looks away, at their joined hands; fiddles with the palm against his, the fingers between his. He nods, slowly, to himself, and presses Sanghyuk's hand, decides it needs his other hand to keep it warm, the palm of it coming to rest against the back of Sanghyuk's hand.

'Do you…' he starts, pauses, nervous. Strokes Sanghyuk's hand, looks up. 'Can you stay?'

Sanghyuk masks his surprise, must admit he did not expect that. Seokwoo is quiet, far from being troublesome or clingy — he does, from time to time, need reassurance and a few hugs, but he's not big on touch, isn't constantly asking to be looked after. But then again, Sanghyuk thinks, he's barely been coming out of his shell, has only just recently started to be comfortable around him. Sanghyuk doesn't really know him, not as much as he'd like to believe. 

Sanghyuk smiles, brushes back the hair falling in Seokwoo's eyes, tucks a few stray strands behind his ear.

'Of course,' he says. 

Seokwoo nods — strokes Sanghyuk's hand one last time before letting it go, moving and holding up the duvet so Sanghyuk can join him. The mattress slightly dips under Sanghyuk's weight, is comfortable, and Sanghyuk lets out a content sigh when he lies down, the pillow underneath his head pleasantly heavenly. 

_Almost more comfortable than my own bed,_ he thinks, opens his mouth to say, but Seokwoo lies back down, shyly turns to him, and Sanghyuk keeps quiet, unwilling to break the moment.

'Can I hold your hand?'

Seokwoo's voice is quiet, unexpected — but Sanghyuk mutters a _sure_ anyway, lets Seokwoo gently grab one of his hands, resting his upon it, almost intertwining their fingers. It's most definitely unusual; being in bed with Seokwoo, holding his hand there, but as Seokwoo closes his eyes, as silence fills the room, Sanghyuk finds it agreeable, enjoyable.

He gazes at Seokwoo, at his lashes and the small shadows they cast on his cheeks, his thin nose and his slightly pouty lips; looks up and admires the entirely white ceiling — listens to Seokwoo's even breathing and, as his gaze comes back to their linked hands, he thinks that perhaps he won't mind sleeping.

He falls asleep — and, for the first time in a while, he sleeps well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> definitely didn't write all the prompts available but remaining drabbles will be posted in chapter two


	2. deux

_ 12\. don’t move (character death) _

The gun held to his head cocks, has a shiver running down his spine that he doesn't try to hide — but it doesn't last, and soon enough Sanghyuk is slouching again, gives the apple in his hand another bite.

'Was wondering when you'd come,' he says, and Seokwoo doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling, the mocking grin he always wears when he thinks he's outsmarted his opponents. 'You just missed the best part.'

He throws his own weapon into the world beneath his feet, into one of the buildings he and his kind just burned to the ground. A building He had taken time and time to build, one He loved dearly — one that will never be His home again.

Seokwoo masks everything that flows into his heart and makes it beat a thousand times faster; only channels quiet, calm. Trick your prey, and let it fall into its own trap.

'Quite the opposite, Sanghyuk.' He allows himself a smile, fake, door to the rage that tears his insides apart. 'I think we're reaching the best part.'

Sanghyuk lets out a laugh, then another — as if they were discussing the weather rather than his upcoming death, as if he'd stolen a biscuit rather than humans' happiness.

'He's ordered me to kill you,' Seokwoo continues. 'You're never walking out of this place you pulverized.'

'Am I? Has he?' Finally Sanghyuk turns around, and locks eyes with him, blatantly ignoring the gun millimeters away from his face, the certain death he's just been promised. His eyes are almost a burning red, hungry for more chaos, ready to consume anything and everything that crosses his path. Evil, so evil. 'And don't you feel awful, being the one having to do the dirty job?'

'No.'

'Not even a little bit?'

Sanghyuk rises, and so does the gun — he tosses his half-eaten apple behind his back, and steps towards Seokwoo, ignores his order to stay back, and gets close to him, closer than they should be.

Further than they once were.

'Aren't you going to miss me?'

'No.'

Sanghyuk smiles, almost sweetly, like he did when their gazes met after a long day — like he always does before tricking him.

'I won't argue on that.' He tilts his head, lets his eyes wander on Seokwoo's face, his body, appreciating the sight just like an art lover would devour a painting — then looks up, meets Seokwoo's gaze again. 'But don't you feel bad?'

He steps closer once more, bridges the distance between them — the gun almost touches his chest now, right where his heart would be if he had one, if it weren't lying six feet under the surface, rotten to its very core and irredeemable.

'Having to kill me instead of him. Doing his dirty job. Don't you feel used?'

Seokwoo ignores what's implied, what's explicitly stated and rubbed in his face. As if He would force it on Seokwoo to do this. As if heaven were just like the slum Sanghyuk lives in.

'If you're trying to appeal to my heart, you won't get much out of it.'

Sanghyuk smiles. 'Locked it away, in a box far out of my reach?'

He reaches out, slowly extends a hand — stops when Seokwoo hisses a  _ don't move — _ only for a few seconds, then ignores his words.

'Don't move,' Seokwoo repeats, but the hand follows the path it wants, and as it comes to rest on his chest, a sick part of him relaxes, thinks everything is fine again.

Nothing is.

'It's right there. It beats fast.' Sanghyuk looks up; eyes just as fiery as before, a deep red where every sin bathes and hides, waiting for a naive prey to subjugate. 'Are you going to kill me with that heart of yours in your chest? With all the regrets it will have to shoulder?'

'There won't be a single regret,' Seokwoo whispers. Knows the weight the words carry, ignores their heaviness as they twist his stomach; forces them to leave his mouth, 'you're no good anymore.'

Sanghyuk has always been hiding; has never excelled at pretending, but he's always tried, whatever the reason was, if it was about work or about them. He would always pretend, and lie, and cover up — would never be sincere, would never say things as they were. And yet, as Seokwoo looks at him, he catches his eyes widening, his lips parting, shock hitting him. Words He's said often, words he's heard often: as they sneak out of Seokwoo's mouth and burst into the air, they enter his soul and cut it deeply, travel to his heart to graze it endlessly.

'You've made up your mind,' he mutters, and the smile on his lips is almost sincere — would trick Seokwoo, if he hadn't seen it rehearsed a billion times. 'Will you allow me, one last time…?'

Seokwoo knows the implication, remembers all the times Sanghyuk has asked for it, and what has followed. He remembers warmth, and comfort, and love — remembers what has since then died, and been buried, and completely ceased to exist.

'No.'

_ There is no place for a kiss,  _ he wants to say, but it sounds too personal, makes the past reality, rather than a shapeless concept that haunts Seokwoo's nights. This battle opposing them — is all that will ever matter to the records, all that should ever happen.

And yet, yet — yet Sanghyuk still breaks the remaining distance between them, gun to his chest, hands coming up to cup Seokwoo's face. He stares at him, like he's done so many times before. He strokes his cheeks with his thumbs, sighs, then lets his hands slide to his neck, resting there, feeling his pulse.

'It beats so fast,' he whispers, barely audible.

He tiptoes, pulls Seokwoo to him, ignoring the refusal he's been given — presses his neck, and brushes their lips together, like he used to do before fully kissing him, taking his time to enjoy everything fully. Only this time, no kiss ever comes.

Sanghyuk brushes their lips together, and mutters bitter nothings against them — closes his eyes, almost as if he knew, and Seokwoo presses the trigger.

He's always been a fan of movies, of books, of grand romantic gestures and dramatic stories, of clichés and rollercoasters of love that end in happy tears — to him, there could be no better end to their story than this.

Yet, as Sanghyuk falls into his arms, blood pouring out of his wound and onto Seokwoo's shirt, death overtaking him and leaving him a limp, empty corpse, Seokwoo feels his own heart, feels it beat fast and faster — each beat overpowers the previous one, carrying a despair that only accentuates, and Seokwoo allows a single tear to run down his cheek, far from the victorious history that will be written down. He holds Sanghyuk close, and pretends everything is fine.

_ You're no good either. _

Nothing is.

_ 18\. muffled scream _

Something cracks behind the closed door at their right — a scream echoes against the walls of the room before being silenced, probably with a gag like the guards did to Sanghyuk, or with a fist to the face like they did to Seokwoo. Ultimately, it doesn't matter how: the person quiets down, and withstands all the following blows.

'We're gonna fucking die,' Seokwoo moans from where he is — laid down on the bench with his head pillowed in Sanghyuk's lap, the blood that was dripping out of his mouth now a brand new pattern on Sanghyuk's washed out jeans. His hair is greasy, dirty — but over the course of the last few hours, Sanghyuk has picked up the as-equally-dirty habit of petting it, undoing all its tangles and trying (vainly) to comb it, to smooth it. They're dead meat, after all, Seokwoo just a little less fresh than Sanghyuk: they might as well spend their last moments as comfortably as possible.

'Don't say that.' Sanghyuk pushes away the hair covering Seokwoo's ear, to stroke the tender little patch of skin above it — after a few hours, you get bored of hair. 'Your pessimism might just lose us both.'

'Fuck you.' Seokwoo coughs. 'You know how it's gonna go down.'

He suddenly rolls on his back, looks at Sanghyuk with his right eye, the only valid one now, not too beaten up and still somewhat able to make out shapes and threats.

'Unless you got a different treatment? They announced you you'd leave instead of being hung?'

Ah. The bitterness. Sanghyuk was starting to wonder if it would ever come.

'Do I look like I'm gonna get freed soon? It's not my fault you couldn't shut your damn mouth while you underwent their usual therapy session. Don't blame me for your mistakes.' A loose strand of hair on Seokwoo's forehead — Sanghyuk combs it back, lets gravity take it. 'Roll back on your side. You'll choke on all that blood in your mouth.'

'And what about it?'

But Seokwoo obeys anyway, turns his back to Sanghyuk once again. It probably means something to him, that this discussion is over, or even a  _ fuck you, _ but Sanghyuk doesn't really care: it means he gets to continue his great task of combing the back of Seokwoo's skull, and, more importantly, that he'll get to caress Seokwoo's nape once he will be done. 

'It hurts,' Seokwoo groans after a few seconds, minutes — impossible for Sanghyuk to know the time, to know how long they've been silent: now his time is measured according to Seokwoo's hair, combed lock after combed lock. They could have been here for days: neither of them would know.

'What hurts?' Sanghyuk caresses the area he was just combing, looks for a bump, a scratch. Finds nothing at all. 'Where does it hurt?'

'My stomach.' Seokwoo coughs, whines. 'I feel like shit. Hm, what's the word?... Nauseous.'

Sanghyuk scrunches up his nose, stops his stroking and petting.

'Don't you dare puking on me.'

'Fuck you. I don't plan to. I'm just updating you about my health status.'

In a way, thank god they've been beaten up for a few good hours: that's the only way they can stand each other, the only way they can overlook the torrent of insults they never cease to throw at each other — the only way the knives they hold at each other's throats get ignored.

'Turn over. Do you still have your scarf?'

Seokwoo does — it's dirty, having fallen to the floor, having had an encounter with the blood coming out of his mouth and the sweat dripping from his every pore. Sanghyuk shakes it, as if the mere gesture could destroy the family of bacteria clinging to it now. It is far from being enough, but pretending will have to do.

Seokwoo groans as Sanghyuk seizes him by the waist, groans as Sanghyuk drags him to the corner, where the benches along the walls meet.

'You're making it worse,' he says,  _ complains,  _ but Sanghyuk tells him to shut up, 'accidentally' pinches his side.

'I'm doing my very best,' Sanghyuk retorts, attempting to fluff up Seokwoo's scarf, then the piece of clothing lying nearby (once more ignoring the long list of diseases probably living on it) — taking off his jacket to add it to the pile he's building on his lap. Seokwoo doesn't seem to mind, doesn't seem to even care — he clings to Sanghyuk's arm as Sanghyuk holds him up, lets out ragged breaths that hit his shoulder. Either he's dying, or he's really about to puke — either way, he kinda seems to be above it.

'There.' Sanghyuk gently pushes Seokwoo down, onto his improvised pillow. Not much, but at the very least decent — and that is a luxury, in this place.

Seokwoo settles up in the newfound comfort, moves here and there until he finds the right position — sighs when he does find it, and closes his eyes. A melodious adieu to his nape plays in Sanghyuk's ears — he decides he'll make do with his forehead.

'Better?'

He brushes Seokwoo's hair back, traces the line of his eyebrows, just because he can and nothing else.

'Yes. It's,' Seokwoo coughs, 'cozy. But the pain… No. Still very there.'

'That's not gonna prevent the gallows from knocking on your door, you know that?'

Seokwoo opens his one eye, glares at him through its slit —  _ fuck you,  _ he thinks, doesn't even need to say, because Sanghyuk can read the two words on his every feature.

'Alright, alright. Insert an apology here.' A pause. 'Where does it hurt?'

Seokwoo takes a few seconds (three strokes to his left eyebrow) to answer, eventually does say something.

'My solar plexus. My intestines.' A pause. 'Probably because they punched me there a few times. Feels like breakfast's coming up.'

_ Not on me, please,  _ Sanghyuk wants to say — but he decides to give Seokwoo a break, because they've already had this exchange, and Seokwoo's tongue, hands, get loose after a few repetitive snaps, strike back at unexpected times — no need to kill each other when the world outside their cell is about to do it all on its own.

'It would be shitty to die like this,' Seokwoo continues. Sanghyuk's prize for staying silent, for not attempting to crack wise: a little bit of his thoughts, of what's going through his mind — his fears, and if Sanghyuk stays quiet long enough, perhaps a lengthy summary of his life.

Sanghyuk is not interested at all.

'Indeed,' he says. Then, just to keep the conversation going, because even if he doesn't want to know more about Seokwoo, he still prefers his voice over the silence threatening to overtake them and drive them mad at any time, 'How does it hurt? On a scale from one to ten, one being it-doesn't-hurt-at-all and ten being a-whole-fucking-lot, eleven being almost-as-bad-as-being shot?'

'A six. It's nausea, I told you.' After what appears to be some deliberation, Seokwoo closes his eyes again. 'Though being shot doesn't seem that bad right now. But like- somewhere nice, you know?'

Sanghyuk snorts — this isn't the most absurd thing Seokwoo has said (the man has a flair for the dramatic), but today, it certainly places first.

'Are you laughing at me?'

Sanghyuk nods, out of habit, forgetting Seokwoo would strangle him even if he were dead — he nods, carelessly, and even lets out a laugh, too amused, the nervousness that's been coursing through his veins all this time finally finding a way to escape this dying household.

'I'm sorry,' he chuckles, and finds it impossible to contain the following one, and the following one, and all the others that keep on coming. He lets go of Seokwoo's hair in favour of hiding his smile. 'You're so dramatic, my god.'

A shadow crosses Seokwoo's face — a veil, covering his eyes, rendering them black and lifeless, while the lack of light kisses his face, clings to it for the shortest time before disappearing. The single light-bulb above the both of them flickers, and when Sanghyuk blinks, the shadow is no more — and Seokwoo's face is turned to the left, away from him.

'You bastard,' he says — but even like this, Sanghyuk can make out the ghost of a smile on his lips, can hear it in his voice. Perhaps there will be no retaliation. 

He lets himself go, and cackles like there's no tomorrow. (There isn't.)

'You son of a- you damn bitch,' Seokwoo continues, but now his shoulders are shaking with laughter, and if Sanghyuk didn't know better, he would think this is all an act. 'You laugh at my misery. You think that's funny? You-' Seokwoo gasps, moans, still lets out a pained laugh. 'Fuck you.'

And these are his last words, for a very long time. Sanghyuk doesn't know how long: he isn't petting Seokwoo's hair anymore, and he's too busy trying not to die of laughter to count each laugh that escapes his lips, that makes it out into the open — to count the ones that leave Seokwoo's, that fill the room with a much too joyful sensation, that go as far as to wrap them in their embrace.

'Fuck you,' Seokwoo repeats — but in this very moment, Sanghyuk would almost kiss him. The world seems so safe by his side, right now, protected by his laughter — death cannot coexist with such a heavenly thing, Sanghyuk thinks, it simply cannot be. Not when the dirty room they're locked in suddenly seems brighter than the Tower itself, not when joy is flowing into his brain and lighting up every corner of it — how can misery exist, in such a perfect world? It cannot, it cannot.

Sanghyuk laughs, and laughs — bends down as he does and becomes the hunchback of the prison of hell, unable to straighten himself up. Seokwoo, on his side, certainly can — and he does, either because Sanghyuk is bothering him, or his stomach ache, or perhaps because he feels better. Sanghyuk doesn't know, doesn't actually even notice — but his forehead ends up leaning against his, and his brain, in-between two laughing fits, has to find a reason for this sudden change, for how close they suddenly are.

'What are you doing?' he wheezes, pulling back just a few centimeters, getting a little lost in Seokwoo's eyes as soon as they're not blurry spots anymore — how brown they are, a pretty, calming shade of brown. Sanghyuk could swear he sees stars in them.

Seokwoo nudges him.

'What are  _ you  _ doing,' he corrects, and he doesn't laugh, manages to stifle it. 'You're the one… Doing.'

His own wording gets him — gets Sanghyuk, too, and Sanghyuk tries his best not to lean his forehead against Seokwoo's again — he opts for his shoulder instead, much better to hide himself.

From what, he doesn't know. Death, perhaps? It seems unlikely, in such a situation. Are they not free?

'What are you doing,' Seokwoo repeats, but this time his voice is controlled; clearly carrying happiness, but calmly.

'Laughing,' Sanghyuk manages to say — his stomach hurts now, just like Seokwoo's. How pointless it is to have them locked up together: they're the worst partners the Order has ever seen. Perhaps this is why they're here. Probably.

'Laughing,' he repeats, coming out of his refuge, locking eyes with Seokwoo — really, really a pretty shade of brown, really, really reassuring. 'Don't you find this all so funny?'

Seokwoo coughs, shakes his head. Smiles anyway, as he says it's not.

'We're dying,' he murmurs.

And Seokwoo is right: as their fits die down, as they exit their cell and allow reality back into the room — death is closer than it was before, now looms over them and refuses to give them up.

Seokwoo has such pretty eyes — Sanghyuk wonders how it completely flew by him — wonders how they'll look, without life illuminating them — wishes it weren't necessary for them to lose their light.

'Not for now,' Sanghyuk thinks, says out loud without meaning to. He pats Seokwoo's shoulder, and looks away, somewhere life doesn't lie, where it doesn't try its best to survive. The dirty bench at his right, the insalubrious floor — the cobwebs at every corner of the ceiling, the forgotten pair of pants by the door.

It is impossible to resign himself to death when a bright light, akin to the sun, to the brightest star in the entire universe, is illuminating him. Sanghyuk looks up.

_ We are, Sanghyuk. _ He can read it in Seokwoo's gaze. In his every feature. In the sad smile curling the ends of his lips, desperately fighting off the despair creeping and settling between them.

'Not for now,' Sanghyuk repeats, and he brushes his own hair back, gives Seokwoo the brightest smile he can give. 'Not for now.'

A spark of hope, of resignation — Seokwoo nods.

'Alright.'

It's all a lie — freedom is dead and so are their names, already. The world will forget all about them in a few hours, and if it tries to remember, it will be pushed into oblivion. They do not exist — will soon have never been, nameless corpses lost in a sea of just as unimportant (very important, erased from memory) others. They're at the very far end of the line — beyond this stop, nothing exists.

Sanghyuk strokes Seokwoo's cheeks — for no reason, other than he can. He might just never get to touch his nape. 

Seokwoo smiles, almost as if he knew. Brown reflects light, and Sanghyuk thinks it's not too bad — his cheek, it's not too bad of a ghost to hold onto while he's dying.

'Not for now,' he repeats.

For just a second — death listens, and disappears.

_ 21\. laced drink _

Everything spins: the ceiling, the floor, the vases on the left, the right. Everything, everything, everything spins, even when Seokwoo lies down, even when he tries to focus on one thing and one thing only. Like the earth has suddenly increased its speed, and doesn't wait for him to catch up to it, like he's being kicked out of his own life — Seokwoo can't move, can't move at all. He can't even talk, the words he's trying to say coming out wrong, first slurred, then simply vanishing as they sit on the tip of his tongue. Something has taken hold of his mind, controls his every gesture, his every act — and it won't let him go, clings to him like an obsessed ex-lover.

Everything, everything is wrong — but there is nothing he can do about it.

'Shhhh. Calm down.'

Something, on his head, in his hair, travelling here and there, being oh, oh so gentle.

_ Help,  _ Seokwoo mouths, but only a whine comes out of his mouth.

_ H-e-l-p… _

'It's alright, it's okay.' The weight on his head, wandering downwards, towards the back of his skull. Is it a hand? It must be — it parts and becomes five lighter weights, all gentle, all darting in different directions. It must be: if Seokwoo focuses enough, if he forgets about his head, he can feel a heavier weight, spread all the way to his arm.

And what else would be this gentle, and yet articulate, at the same time? What else could be up there, aimlessly petting this and that spot? Surely, it must be a hand. A kind, kind hand, that only has his best interests in mind.

Surely, surely, it must be this.

'I can't hear you, love.' A scratch to the area above Seokwoo's ear. A little higher — yes, just here. Perfect. 'You keep mumbling… inaudibly… Say that again?'

Seokwoo isn't saying anything, he's keeping quiet, thinking that- is he? Is he? He isn't, isn't thinking about talking, about saying something — but his lips move, utter words. But what words? What words? What is he saying? He doesn't mean to, means to think it all and keep it locked in a part of his mind.

What is he saying?

'Ah.'

A laugh, heavenly to Seokwoo's ears — high-pitched, yet delicate, lovely. Oh, so lovely. Seokwoo likes it. A lot. He feels safe around it.

'You talk so fast. I can barely understand you. Shhhhh.' Fingers travelling to Seokwoo's nape — ah, so pleasant. 'I know, the world spins too fast. I know. That's an after-effect of the drug, love.'

Drug?  _ Drug? _ What drug?

_ Help. Help…! _

'Why are you laughing? Babe- haha, no. Stop laughing. Why- you're so cute when you laugh.'

Seokwoo paws, at the void, at the spinning ceiling as he tries to roll on his side. He isn't laughing! Not at all! He's trying to scream, trying to call for help. Why won't this stranger help him? There's a drug in his — his system, his body. It's taken control of him. Why won't this stranger do something? Are they doing their best? Have they called the security? The boss said she needs intel on the enemy… to be back at one at worst… What time is it… what time is it… why is none rescuing him… a drug… surely he must go to the hospital…

'Calm down, pet. Are you not listening? Stop giggling- don't stay like that, you could- pet, I don't want you to choke on your own vomit.' Another weight, another hand, trying to push Seokwoo back to his original position, on his side, back to the person holding him steady. Seokwoo fights back. 'Alright, then.' A pause. Seokwoo thinks he sees stars above him.

Stars? He keeps his eyes open, stares and stares and stares until his eyes hurt. There's something bubbling up in his throat. A scream. A groan. No, these aren't stars. Stars don't hurt the eyes like this. Stars are gentle —

Is he being held by a star?

'Hey, hey- why are you crying? 'No, no' — yes, yes! You're crying! Look at that!'

A finger caressing Seokwoo's temple, showing him… something he cannot see. This star is so gentle, so kind — but the lights above eclipse them.

'Ah, you probably can't see. Well… you're crying! Stop crying. It's okay. It's fine.'

It's not, it's really not.

_ Where am I, _ Seokwoo asks. Thinks of asking — he hears a sob come out. Why can't he speak? Is it the drug? The drug… Which drug? When did he ever take it? Seokwoo doesn't drug himself — no, sir, he's the perfect agent. That's why he was chosen for this mission: he does everything flawlessly. Flawlessly, flawlessly… He's never done anything wrong, ever. What a good, good agent. He must sleep tonight, when he comes home; there is something very wrong with the way things are going. What time is it, again? What does the little hand on the clock mean, again? Ah… Impossible to remember… to remember — to remember what, again?

'Love, it's alright. It's alright. Can you see me? No?'

The hand has deserted Seokwoo's hair long ago — but he only notices it now, as his interlocutor moves, applies the slightest pressure on his chest. Offering a different kind of comfort — Seokwoo reaches up, to touch this hand, to cling to it. Star, please help him. 

'Light a candle. Turn off the lights.' Something rummaging around the room, moving in the corner of Seokwoo's eye. What is it? All dressed in dark blue, flashes of red — the familiar tones…

'There, yes. You- hey, calm down! Calm down. What… Sweetheart, of course. Love…' The brightness dying — only a flicker of light remains. 'Does memory loss come with that thing?  _ Maybe? _ I'd need a little more than  _ maybe.' _

The hand moving — now it strokes Seokwoo's forehead, his face. Whispers, indecipherable. Or is it something rustling? These clothes moving — don't they speak? Don't they try to tell him something? They get closer —  _ no,  _ Seokwoo says, nestling against the star.  _ No. _

'Go away. No. You're scaring him. Can your report wait, or is there something I must know? … Then it can wait. Go and rest.'

A voice, this time Seokwoo is sure of it. It says… something, a thing Seokwoo cannot understand. It doesn't seem to be important — it leaves, as quickly as it came — and the star strokes Seokwoo's neck, brushes a gentle thumb over his adam's apple.

'You can't see me now either, can you? Oh, well. We'll meet again tomorrow.'

Tomorrow? Tomorrow? Tomorrow… Seokwoo has to be at the agency tomorrow… Is the star a new recruit? Seokwoo hopes so, a little — this is an embarrassing first meeting, but… if a star is his new colleague…

'What are you mumbling about, again? The enemy? Don't worry, the enemy isn't doing anything soon. You can trust me on that.'

A cough — the thin light isn't enough to see the star, to make out their features. Though Seokwoo could swear he sees red on the collar of their uniform. But red… his star cannot be one of those demons… 

'Pet, you're getting everything mixed up. My god, I should have- shhhh. Down, down. What is it? My collar? Oh, sweetheart.'

Another hand, on Seokwoo's forehead, caressing every inch of his skin. It lingers on his cheek, grazes the eternal dark circles under his eyes. It holds him gently, like the sky probably holds the stars in its arms. Ah — so it misses home, wants him to feel as loved as it was.

'You need to rest, love.  _ No, no. _ Yes, yes! I know. I know. Your boss wants you back so you can give them a report. I know. I'm aware.'

_ So what are you waiting for,  _ Seokwoo asks — but the hand on his face is so calming. Here it draws a circle, and there a triangle — here it traces the line of his nose, and there it caresses his lips. Seokwoo has never been kissed by a star.

'You'll understand everything tomorrow. Close your eyes. Close them, love.'

Absolute darkness — frightening, murmuring the words of unearthly demons to Seokwoo's ears… Seokwoo hides his face in the star's embrace, where warmth seems to reside. He loses the hands, their touch, but the star's clothes smell nice, nicer than the pretty nurse at the agency — a reassuring scent, made of stardust and sunrise, of a hill where each day is a bright opportunity for life to poke its head out.

'Sweetheart… Oh, sweetheart…'

Fingers, once more caressing the back of his head. There, just there — the perfect spot to elicit a shiver, to render Seokwoo just a little weak in the knees.

Now he hears it: Hypnos calling to him, extending a hand.  _ You're not safe,  _ he says — but Hypnos is not a star: who would believe him?

Seokwoo refuses his embrace, and asks for mercy, quietly. Only a groan comes out.

A brief caress to his temple, his cheek — his lips. Seokwoo kisses whatever is touching him. His boss won't be angry if he tells her he kissed a star, right? Right…

'Oh, darling…'

Right. Seokwoo breathes in — and falls deep into slumber.

_ alt:14. touch-starved _   
It's pathetic: Seokwoo sitting there, in a nightgown and nothing else, crying his heart out, with a half-finished mug of coffee in hand. Perhaps this is why she won't touch him anymore: he's grown sappy over the years, a sponge that absorbs and absorbs and absorbs and never once lets the water go. He's become mellow, rotten; what kind of person loves dirty, used things?

'I'm sorry,' he whispers, to the greyish silhouette standing in the corner, who's been watching all this time, who's been forced to listen to his growing despair. It's not Seokwoo's fault, it isn't — he's been tired, today, awfully tired. She was supposed to come home yesterday — but here she is, conspicuous by her absence, only texting him that she's at a friend's. Probably the blond colleague she always hangs out with, or the pretty one who seemed to know, who gave Seokwoo a sympathetic smile as he picked her up to go to the theater. Her taste in paramours is poor — but does Seokwoo have the right to say something, when he stays with her? He's being tricked like a kid — who, here, is the fool, the butt of the story? Seokwoo knows.

They all do.

'I should… Perhaps I should move out… I… clearly…'

He wishes the dark brown liquid in his mug were alcohol, he wishes he could get blackout drunk until she finally decides she's had enough, until she leaves his heart alone, and gets away. What good is it for her to stay? 

'I'll die at this rate. I'll die. I'll die, and she…' Seokwoo thinks the words he's about to say through, chuckles bitterly when he realises there's hope in them. He changes it all. 'I'll die, and she won't care at all. She'll invite her partners over, all of them, and they'll dance on my body until it's rotten. Then they'll bury me, somewhere dirty, ugly, and they'll dance on my grave. They'll spit on it, too. She's good at that… Spitting on me… Treating me like…'

_ Absolute dogshit,  _ he means to say, but the chair at his left moves, is pulled away then towards him. It shuts him up — something that happens so rarely. With her, Seokwoo talks and talks and talks. He never stops: she never listens.

But Sanghyuk — Sanghyuk never lets him finish. Sanghyuk never wants to listen to all of it. Perhaps because he's dead: he sees how futile it all is. Perhaps — if that's the case, Seokwoo kind of wishes he were dead too. Perhaps then he'd be able to break his bond with her.

'I don't think you should be the one moving out.'

Cool, seeping through the thin material of Seokwoo's nightgown, onto his thigh — Seokwoo shivers. That's something he can never get used to, no matter how often Sanghyuk has been comforting him nowadays. Perhaps because of how cold he is — perhaps because every touch comes from him nowadays, and he can never get used to the gulf that she dug between them overnight.

'She's not leaving this place.'

He rests his head on Sanghyuk's shoulder, like always, and lets out a sigh when Sanghyuk wraps an arm around his shoulder. It's a never-ending play, a merry-go-round that never stops: always, always the same. The only thing that changes, the only one who evolves, is Seokwoo, and even that is debatable: he only grows more and more miserable, only his despair becomes heavier. Nothing else changes; he remains in love.

He imagines her scent, invading his lungs as he breathes in nothingness; her warmth as Sanghyuk holds him silently; her fingers, on his shoulder, going up, down, up, down.

She's not coming home today. She isn't.

'I will have to do it.'

She's not loving him. Not ever again.

Sanghyuk remains still, lets Seokwoo play that pathetic fantasy of his. He's nothing: he doesn't have a smell, speaks in broken sentences that sound more like an echo than an actual voice. He doesn't even have a real body — but his touch, his touch is so comforting, and when he lulls Seokwoo to sleep, after listening to him cry for hours — Seokwoo needs nothing more than his voice, guiding him into oblivion, his hands, replacing Morpheus' embrace. They're real, no matter how absurd it all seems from the outside —  _ he's  _ real, no matter how dead he is.

And he does so many things she doesn't do. He listens, even if he always interrupts Seokwoo. He plays along, when Seokwoo is in a good mood. He cleans, while he sleeps. He drags him out of bed, and forces him out of the house. He laughs, and empathises, and comforts him. He holds him — like she never ever did, like Seokwoo has never ever been held. He caves in to every distress of Seokwoo, treats him like an overgrown child.

He does so much — so, so much.

'I can't stand it anymore,' Seokwoo confesses. His eyes are wet again, and his heart hurts once more. He's dying, at this rate, dying of heartbreak.

Sanghyuk pulls him into his arms, shifts here and there to make sure Seokwoo is comfortable as he curls up to him. He's so tall, so tall, but when Sanghyuk holds him like this, he feels like the smallest being on earth, needing to be protected, from everything and nothing, from all the harm that knocks at his door.

So far — Sanghyuk has always stood before him, and shielded him. So far — he's been the bigger one. And it seems that today —

'Let me,' Sanghyuk whispers. 'Let me kick her out. I've had enough. Let me break things off.'

He cups Seokwoo's face as he looks at him, send shivers down his spine as his icy fingers wander on his nape, force Seokwoo to meet his gaze. He's furious, oh so furious — his entire body is cold, but his eyes burn with a fire stronger than the ones from the deepest corner of hell — a calm fire, that has it all planned out. The most dangerous fire to exist.

'Let me set you free.'

He doesn't smell, of anything — before, when everything was new, when she meant her  _ I love yous — _ he could taste sweetness on her lips, could taste love in her every kiss.

She hasn't kissed him in forever. Won't kiss him when she comes back. She doesn't love him, not anymore.

'Let me.'

Sanghyuk's eyes scan over Seokwoo's face — look for his agreement in his every gesture, in the blinks of his eyes and the smallest parting of his lips. He wishes for him to accept so strongly — Seokwoo can feel the need buzzing through his hands, into himself.

_ Please, _ he can hear — and it almost seems that his heart echoes the request, it almost seems that today, it no longer wants to fight.

Sanghyuk's hands are freezing under his own — but it's a harmless cold, one that exists and nothing more. Like Sanghyuk: it's there, present, but it has never once hurt him. Sometimes, the dead are sprightlier than the living.

'Please,' Seokwoo murmurs.

A lone tear rolls down his cheeks, and Sanghyuk pulls him into his arms.

‘I will,’ he whispers. ‘I will.’

— today, Sanghyuk will be bigger than he's ever been.  


_ alt:12. waterlogged _

They were right: the tail has a strange contenance — hard and soft at the same time, waterlogged, like it's spent so much time in water, destroyed by it, that it now cannot live without it. Sanghyuk knows the thought is stupid, that technically, it's all undiscovered scales assembled in a way none has ever seen before — but he keeps thinking about it, as he strokes the tail, as the other twirls and twirls in the water, just to let him play, just to grant him this discovery.

It's insanely pretty: it glows, and goes from shades of green to shades of purple, shines under the artificial light of the pool. it's long, so long, and Sanghyuk laughs as Specimen 4144 plays, waves their tail but doesn't let him catch it.

'Be fair,' he asks of them, and the mermaid, kind, amused, obeys. They watch as Sanghyuk inspects their tail — have been watching all this time, all this time, but it's different now: for Sanghyuk to raise his head, and to catch them staring, to look away, and know 4144 is ogling him shamelessly, staring and staring and staring, not getting tired of looking at him.

It's just as transparent as before, but now that no glass stands between them — it feels much more intimate.

'Your tail is so pretty,' Sanghyuk says, just to distract 4144, just to have them glancing at their tail for a second — they admire it, move it this way and that way to make it glint just perfectly. Pretty, so pretty.

It's still so astonishing, how they understand every word of his, how they know what everyone has been saying all along. All those secrets discussed in front of them — oh, if they all knew.

'They're all fools,' Sanghyuk whispers — caressing the fins at the end of the tail, looking up when they disappear.

_ Enough,  _ 4144 says, thinks — how smart their species is, how much more evolved they are. They tilt Sanghyuk's chin up and wait, look for something in his face. What — he doesn't know, but 4144 smiles, brightly, and Sanghyuk thinks it's okay, if he has no clue about everything happening, if he's left in the dark and only 4144 beams.

_ Let me show you pretty. _

Slender, webbed fingers, cupping Sanghyuk's face. They feel just like the tail: slippery, soft — Sanghyuk smiles, tickled, and cannot resist laying his own hands on them. They hold him so tenderly — and 4144's voice is gentle, as they ask him to close his eyes — Sanghyuk does, of course, would accept every request of theirs in a heartbeat.

At first he sees nothing — can only feel water, clogging his ears, carrying his body, being his master. But then — an image appears. Bathed in blue, first deep, then bright, like neon lights — at its center, someone, held by pale hands. Long lashes, and hair dancing with the water — lips slightly agape, and a smile lighting up everything.

Sanghyuk squeezes 4144's hands, appreciates seeing a reflection of himself in his mind — then he opens his eyes, unable to look at himself any longer, feeling like his heart might burst if he does, each beat quicker and louder than the one preceding it, much weaker than the one following it.

_ So pretty,  _ 4144 whispers — their gaze locked with Sanghyuk's, achromatic eyes with tints of every shade of colour staring back, and not letting go. Their left hand deserts his cheek, to slide down his chest, under his tee-shirt; to rest on his lower back. How nice it feels there, and how tender it is as it pulls him closer. Sanghyuk's heart might truly burst, it might truly give out.

4144 kisses him, of course — they gently press their lips against his, once, then kiss him again, longer, better. Their lips are nice, strangely human, yet so unfamiliar: they taste of nothing, and are smoother than anyone's Sanghyuk has ever kissed. So odd — but they're so gentle, so loving, and kiss Sanghyuk like he's heaven on earth, and 4144 is the angel tasked to explore it.

And how skilled of an angel they are, how talented they are at making him feel priceless: Sanghyuk becomes addicted in a heartbeat, and kisses back every time, abandons who he is, whoever he once was, to 4144.

_ Shape me,  _ he says with each kiss, each parting of his lips, each quickening of his heart beat. And 4144 does: they kiss, and kiss, and pull him closer, touch him here, and there, their hands wandering on his back, in his hair. They take every breath Sanghyuk give them, and give back tenfold — they shape him, his pleading requests of being kissed again, his desperate hands wanting to touch them, his begging heart in dire need of attention.

_ Love me,  _ Sanghyuk implores, heart on the verge of fainting, unable to contain everything happening —

but it doesn't matter, not at all: 4144 promises they will, and kiss him for the nth time.

Outside — the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've read this all thanks a lot hope you enjoyed


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